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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children curled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on damaged glass billowed and tore, while metal sheets ripped free and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism